


you're a bird in the water; i'm a fish on the ground

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety, Awkwardness, Drunken Kissing, Emotionally Repressed, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Pining, Season/Series 01, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "Martin just tries so hard, all the time, bending over backwards for Jon, hoping for a morsel of approval that he never gets. Now that he's staying in the archives, he keeps bringing Jon tea, checking in on him, making sure he sleeps every once in a while. Sometimes he gets on Jon’s case because he can tell from the sight of him that Jon hasn't eaten in at least a day, and Jon snipes at him but he usually listens, pulls a granola bar from his jacket pocket that Martin's sure has been in there for weeks.Things have been weird recently, changing the climate between them subtly – almost imperceptibly, but Martin is incredibly perceptive when it comes to Jon, so he sees it. He sees the way Jon looks at him differently, but he can't figure out what the look is, what it means. It's just different."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: you've been like a light [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 15
Kudos: 169





	you're a bird in the water; i'm a fish on the ground

_so if you want me, i'll be around_   
_you're a bird in the water_   
_i'm a fish on the ground_   
_just hold me closer_   
_oh, won't you hold me down tonight?_

_// carly rae jepsen, 'guitar string/wedding ring'_

* * *

Martin listens to all of the tapes. 

He’s fairly sure Jon doesn’t know this, and he’s almost as sure that it wouldn’t change much if he did. After all, it's not like Jon has ever had a problem with showing and saying exactly how he feels about Martin. Maybe, _maybe,_ he might be just a _tad_ nicer if he knew Martin would hear what he was saying. But probably not.

Tim tells him it's not worth worrying about, but Martin has trouble not worrying when Jon says all those things about him so easily, like it's second nature for him to deride Martin. He replays those bits of the tapes over and over again, trying to figure out exactly what he’s done wrong to make Jon hate him so much, but of course there’s not a lot in the way of actual grievances so much as general contempt.

_…I don’t count Martin, as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays…_

(The comment makes him choke on air, if only because he is surprised that Jon is even mentioning him. He stops the tape for a moment, feeling stupid but unable to hold back a giddy smile at the sound of Jon's voice saying his name. 

Even dripping with disdain, it's still _Jon's_ voice, and _his_ name, and Martin thinks, with only a small twinge of embarrassment, that it's an incredibly sexy sound.)

_…but at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief…_

(He could be a bit upset about that one. It's a purely personal dig, rather than a professional critique, but it's fair, he thinks. 

Or – maybe not fair, but… inevitable? 

In any case, he knows Jon isn't his biggest fan and, well, if he can lift Jon's mood by being elsewhere, then isn't that a good thing? Doesn't Jon deserve that _relief?)_

_…if Martin speaks Polish the same way he ‘speaks Latin’, then he might be talking nonsense again…_

(That one is a bit harsh, even Martin can admit. He knows more Polish than Jon, and more Latin, too; he could use a little bit of recognition for that. He's not claiming to be fluent in every language, but he has picked some things up. 

He makes a mental note to start showing off a bit around Jon, because he can be petty sometimes, and because he wants so badly for Jon to acknowledge that he's _good_ at something.)

_…Useless ass…_

(Ouch.)

Martin listens to the tapes on his lunch breaks, because that’s the only time he can do it without Jon hovering over him. He absconds with them when the archivist isn’t looking, or else he has Tim grab them for him, and he feels guilty for it, though he knows realistically he shouldn’t. It’s part of his job, isn’t it, to be informed about all the goings-on and happenstances. 

Tim listens to the tapes all the time, and Jon doesn’t care except when he points out inconsistencies in the recordings. The only reason Martin has to sneak around is because he doesn’t know how Jon would feel about _him_ listening to them, and he’s just a little bit afraid of Jon.

Not really _afraid,_ mind. He is afraid to upset Jon, but it’s not for any real expectation of ire or wrath from the archivist. It’s more for the fact that he doesn’t want Jon to _be_ upset, because he likes Jon and doesn’t want to be a source of distress for him, and also for the fact that he would rather not sour Jon’s view of him any more than strictly necessary. So he keeps it to himself, listens to the tapes in secret on his own time, shoves down whatever feelings come up when he hears how Jon talks about him.

Honestly, Martin can't even be offended about it. All of Jon's complaints about his skills as an archival assistant are perfectly valid; Martin isn't qualified to be doing this, he isn't educated, he isn't – well, he isn't good enough for the job. He isn't good enough for _Jon._ And that's something that he's had to learn and get used to, but he's pretty much got it down by now.

It still _hurts,_ though. Martin adores Jon, nigh on worship, and it would be nice if Jon didn't hold such an open, obvious contempt for him. That's what he has Tim for, he supposes, to reassure him and make him feel human again, though he feels guilty for burdening him with his whining, no matter how much Tim tells him it's fine.

"You're allowed to be upset about it," Tim insists when Martin apologizes for the seventh time. "He treats you like shit, and you don’t deserve any of it. I know how you feel about him, Martin, I’m your friend, and you shouldn’t have to hold it all in."

"It's not very attractive, is it," Martin mumbles sheepishly, turning his face into Tim's shoulder, his cheeks burning up. "Me crying about him when we're in bed together. Should just get over it. Not fair to you, really, I'm sorry."

"Martin," Tim breathes against the top of his head. "Please don't ever apologize for confiding in me. If I didn't want to hear it, I would tell you, alright? Like – you know I _like_ you, yeah? I don’t just hang out with you for the sex. I care about you, and I want you to be happy.”

There’s nothing for Martin to say to that, nothing that wouldn’t get him scolded even more. He wants to tell Tim to get out while he still can, run away before they get too entangled. He wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do this, that he’ll be fine by himself when Tim inevitably gets tired of holding him through his mental breakdowns.

And he knows Tim will – get tired of him, that is. That knowledge is almost as certain in his mind as the knowledge of Jon's contempt for him. Instead of saying that, he just sighs and brushes a feather-light kiss over Tim’s collarbone. Best not to delve too deep into the Jon issue right now, he figures, not when they’ve been having a good night and they’re both on the edge of sleep, exhausted from a combination of sex and laughter and just a bit of crying, right there at the end. 

So he drops the issue, rolls over and lets Tim drift off while he continues to dwell on it, silently and alone, the way it should be. 

Martin just tries so _hard,_ all the time, bending over backwards for Jon, hoping for a morsel of approval that he never gets. Now that he's staying in the archives, he keeps bringing Jon tea, checking in on him, making sure he sleeps every once in a while. Sometimes he gets on Jon’s case because he can tell from the sight of him that Jon hasn't eaten in at least a day, and Jon snipes at him but he usually listens, pulls a granola bar from his jacket pocket that Martin's sure has been in there for weeks.

Things have been _weird_ recently, changing the climate between them subtly – almost imperceptibly, but Martin is incredibly perceptive when it comes to Jon, so he sees it. He sees the way Jon looks at him differently, but he can't figure out what the look is, what it means. It's just different. He hopes beyond hope that it isn't because Jon knows about his thing with Tim, but that's the only thing that's really happened, unless it's some kind of slow reaction to do with Martin staying here.

Sometimes, Jon still sleeps at work. He won't impose on Martin's personal space – or he just doesn't want to be around him – so he starts falling asleep at his desk more and more. Martin works late with him most nights. It wouldn't be right, he thinks, to leave Jon to do the work by himself while he's just down the hall getting his beauty rest. It wouldn't be fair. 

"You don't have to stay," Jon mumbles sleepily, his head drooping. "I can take care of this."

"I want to help," Martin insists, earnest and warm in spite of his own exhaustion. He offers Jon a fond little smile, and Jon smiles back at him, disarming him completely. It takes a minute of heart pounding dry mouth _never loved anyone this much please smile like that forever_ before he can speak up again, his voice strained: "You shouldn't have to do all this alone."

Jon accepts his kindness, lets him stay and go through files with him. They talk, more than they ever have before, and they laugh on occasion, and Martin thinks maybe things are looking up. Jon never gets bored of him. He can tell, he _knows_ he can tell, because he's seen Jon bored and annoyed and completely done, and this is not it. This is Jon… _listening_ to him.

It's strange, because Jon still doesn't act like he _likes_ him, more like he's making the best of a bad situation, trying to accept that Martin is going to be around and it would be better for both of them if they got along. He isn't happy to see Martin or to talk to him. He just lets it happen, it seems.

That’s how it goes for a while, at least. They dance around each other, acting friendlier than ever before, because they’re in close proximity for sixteen hours a day on average. No other reason. 

It’s one of those late nights, a Thursday, when Martin’s stomach starts to rumble and he realizes he never took his lunch break today, too busy with whatever Jon was having him work on. He doesn’t regret it, but he’s hungry now, and while he would usually order something after Jon either fell asleep or went home, he doesn’t much feel like waiting. “When’s the last time you ate?” he asks casually. "You want to order pizza, or something?"

"Ah, no." Jon pauses for a long moment before he remembers to add, "Thank you, though."

Martin frowns, concerned with the shortness of the answer as well as the content of it. "Not hungry? Or just not a fan of pizza? You really should eat something."

Jon takes a deep breath like he’s preparing to divulge a painful secret. He doesn’t meet Martin’s eyes when he finally mutters, "I, erm. Can't stand the texture of melted cheese." 

"That makes sense,” Martin nods his understanding and presses on without questioning it, because he knows from his own experience that people can react strangely to things like that. Textures are weird. He won’t focus on it when it’s something Jon clearly doesn’t want to discuss, but he wishes he could just reassure him that he gets it, at least. But the best he can do in service of that end is to just move past it. “Want a Chinese, then? Or Thai?"

"I could go for some pad see ew," Jon nods thoughtfully, some of the tension melting from his posture, but then he grimaces. "Actually, scratch that, I don't have any cash on me."

"I'll spot you,” Martin replies without missing a beat.

"No, no, I wouldn't want –"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jon,” Martin interrupts, speaking over Jon, rolling his eyes. “You need to eat. Don't worry about it."

It takes a long moment for Jon to grapple with the prospect of letting Martin buy him dinner, but he comes around eventually, mutters a quiet, stilted, "O...kay. Thank you."

"No problem," Martin assures him warmly, already pulling up a menu on his phone. "Meat? Spice level?"

Again, Jon has to pause and think, eyes glued to his hands where they rest on his desk, before answering hesitantly, "No meat. Medium spice. And a vegetarian egg roll, if they've got them?"

Martin nods and smiles, trying his damnedest to make Jon comfortable with the situation. In his experience, the best way to make Jon comfortable with anything is to let him have a few minutes alone to come to terms with it, even if it’s a small thing like this. "Sure, sure,” Martin says, pushing his chair back and standing, jerking his head in the direction of the door. “I'll be back, then. Have to be on the ground floor or higher to make a phone call, you know how this place is."

He’s almost gone by the time it occurs to Jon to reply, "Yeah."

By the time Martin returns, Jon looks marginally more relaxed, and he’s poring over the work they’ve been trying to get done all night. “Should be about half an hour,” Martin tells him, making sure that Jon knows he’s there before speaking, because he’s made the mistake before of accidentally sneaking up on him, and it’s not fun for anyone involved. "What else do we have to finish?"

"Not much,” Jon shrugs, looking up at him. “If we're efficient, we can finish by the time the food gets here."

“Right,” Martin agrees quietly, “then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Furrowing his brow, Jon looks at the floor before meeting Martin’s eyes again. “You can stay.”

Martin can’t hide the surprise in his voice when he squeaks out, “Why?”

“So you don’t have to eat alone?” says Jon, soft and almost pitying. “And me too, I suppose. We can have a drink.”

"A drink of – of alcohol?" Martin asks incredulously, eyebrows shooting up.

"I don't see why not, if we're done with work for the night,” Jon replies casual as you please. “I have white wine, so tannins won't be an issue."

Martin flushes at the reminder. He hadn't really counted on Jon _knowing_ things about tannins; it wasn't like he knew much about them, either. He just needed an excuse not to drink because he tends to spill his guts when he's tipsy, and he definitely didn't want that happening. Now, though, he doesn't have an excuse. He's not on the clock. Anyway, it's just him and Jon, what's the worst that could happen? 

The worst that could happen, Martin knows, is pretty awful. But he doesn’t have a good excuse, and he doesn’t think the worst case scenario is very likely, and he really would like to have a glass of wine and wind down a bit. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to do that.

So he nods and smiles, muscle memory taking him through the motions, and Jon moves on without another word about it. They finish up the statement they're working on, which consists of making a list of people to call for follow-up, mostly, because they can't call anyone now at – Martin checks the clock – twenty to midnight.

When the food arrives, Jon accompanies Martin upstairs, reluctant to let him go out to the sidewalk to meet the delivery person by himself. Martin knows it’s just because of the situation they’re in, that Jon is only worried about worm-related dangers rather than a general concern for Martin’s safety, but it’s more than enough for him. 

They sit down to eat in the document storage room where Martin’s been sleeping – it feels intimate, vulnerable, but Martin pushes through the nerves to let it happen. If Jon is willing to sit down and have a meal and a glass of wine with him, Martin isn’t going to complain about the venue. This room is worm-free and all the important papers are filed away, as opposed to the stacks or Jon’s office, where statements are scattered about and left on desks.

Jon sits on the table to eat, his legs dangling off the edge, feet kicking back and forth gently. He says it’s because he feels more comfortable further away from the worms, but Martin’s just grateful for the built-in excuse not to make eye contact; if he keeps his gaze on his food, he can almost pretend Jon isn’t two feet away from him with his waist at Martin’s eye level. Almost, but not quite, because it would be incredibly awkward to eat without talking to him at all.

“White wine’s good with pad thai,” Martin remarks offhand when the quiet gets too much. “Never knew.”

“Not a big drinker?” Jon asks idly, then takes a sip of his own wine.

Martin shakes his head, words bubbling up from his throat unbidden, because apparently the wine’s already gotten to him. “No, I spent most of my early 20’s taking care of my mum,” he says – too honest, but not the worst thing he could say. He doesn’t say that he was actually here at the Institute in his early 20’s, and he’s grateful for that, because that would invite questions that he can’t answer truthfully without getting fired.

Before Martin can fall too far into worrying about what he could accidentally reveal, Jon responds, “Right. Sorry, shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s fine, you couldn’t have known,” Martin assures him sincerely. “We don’t really talk about this stuff, you and me.”

“I suppose we don’t,” Jon murmurs in agreement. “Well, we’re here now. Anything you’ve been dying to know about me? I think I owe you some candor.”

All the blood in Martin’s body tries to rush to his cheeks at once, and the combination of the alcohol and the overwhelming stature of that invitation makes him a bit lightheaded. He discards the first few questions that pop into his head; it probably wouldn’t be good manners, he thinks, to ask Jon point blank if he’s straight, or if he’s single, or why he hates Martin so much.

What he settles on after a bit of thought is blunt, but not outright rude. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

Jon frowns almost reflexively, like he’s not really put out but he thinks he should be. Martin is just about to apologize and tell him to forget about it when Jon manages to answer him. “My… parents both passed away when I was young,” he says, quiet and pensive. “My grandmother raised me. No siblings or anything. Just the two of us.”

“Not that different, then,” Martin muses half to himself before realizing it’s an inappropriate thing to say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean – obviously, your situation was different from mine, I didn’t mean to downplay it. Just meant it’s – lonely, isn’t it.”

“A bit, yeah,” Jon nods, blessedly forgiving and ignoring Martin’s fumbling awkwardness. “I think uni was good for me. Getting out, having friends, dating.”

“Oh. Oh. Erm. Me too, yeah – uni. Dating. Yeah.” Martin swallows nervously, alcohol making his head fuzzy, mind swimming with thoughts of keeping up his cover while also heavily distracted by the notion of Jon and dating in the same sentence. “You dated a lot, or?”

Jon laughs, a short, humorless breath. “Not really. I had one long-term relationship, and a few others before and after her, but not – not a lot.”

“Not the ultimate ladies’ man? Shocker.” Even as he says it, Martin wants to strangle himself for being unable to keep his bloody mouth shut.

Apparently, Jon isn’t having the same reaction, because he doesn’t look offended in the least at Martin’s comment, only shrugs and continues talking about himself, which Martin could listen to for hours. “Actually, men are usually more into me, for some reason?” he says, as if it’s a casual factoid and not the biggest revelation of Martin’s life. “I think something about my attitude makes them view me as a challenge.”

Unable to stop himself, Martin retorts, “And are you?”

A look of confusion flits across Jon’s face, quickly replaced by a blank expression, looking past Martin with unfathomable dark eyes. “Am I what?”

Martin swallows hard, and his voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies. “A challenge.”

“Me?” Jon asks, lifting a hand to his chest in mock surprise. “No, I’m… I’m easy.”

“Is that so,” Martin murmurs under his breath.

Jon properly looks at him then, green eyes meeting Martin’s and piercing through to his soul, and just stares for a long, heavy moment. Martin takes a breath, prepared to say something, anything, but there’s only about half a second before Jon breaks, bursting into laughter, and Martin can’t help but join him. It’s not that funny – he doesn’t even know what the joke is – but Jon’s laughter, rare as it is, is utterly contagious.

They laugh themselves breathless, until Martin has tears streaming down his face and Jon is clutching his stomach, until their giggling peters out into blissful sighs and attempts to catch their breath. Jon’s doubled over with his laughter, which in his position means that he’s leaning over on one elbow, quite solidly in Martin’s personal bubble, though Martin doesn’t mind one bit. 

He minds even less, somehow, when his realization of how close Jon’s face is to his own turns into a realization of Jon’s face moving even closer, and the realization that they’re both leaning toward each other at the same time, and the realization that Jon is – Jon is kissing him, fully and truly and actually _kissing_ him.

It starts off a bit clumsy, Jon fumbling to keep his balance on the table while leaning as far into Martin as he can, but once he gets a stable arm under him things smooth out. His free hand goes to cup Martin’s face, palm cradling his burning cheek, and he kisses like a question, like a soft plea for permission. Martin hopes that Jon can feel the _yes, yes, yes_ flowing from his lips in response.

Jon licks into his mouth, tongue pressing between his lips with an unhurried sort of heat, languid strokes against Martin’s own tongue and along the lines of his teeth. There’s a practiced patience in the way he explores Martin’s mouth, like he’s studying it closely for future analysis, and Martin opens up beautifully for him, lets him in and accepts his ministrations with little contented hums.

The kiss only ends when Martin has to pull away for breath, but the second they separate, reality comes crashing down around him. He stares up at Jon, mortified, his lips tingling and his breath coming in short, ragged pants. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says in a rush, eyes wide with rapidly dawning horror. “God, I’m so sorry, Jon, I just – I don’t know what I was thinking.” He blinks several times, shakes his head vigorously. “I’ll go. I’ll – yeah, I’ll go. I’m sorry. Shit.”

And just like that, Martin’s fleeing before Jon can process far enough to even comprehend the situation. He doesn’t know why Martin is apologizing, nor why he’s leaving, but he can’t think of a single thing to say to make him stay, and he’s positive his vocal chords wouldn’t work if he tried. He just watches, frozen and dumbstruck, as Martin runs away. 

When he eventually regains his senses, Jon realizes rather abruptly that he’s in Martin’s room – Martin _sleeps_ here, and Jon’s just driven him out, made him uncomfortable in the one space that he should be able to feel safe in. Making a mental note to beat himself up over it later, he takes stock of his surroundings, tries to discern what he can do in this moment to make things better. Martin’s dinner is still here, he notices, so he sets to packing it up, cleans up the remnants of his presence there, and writes a short note for Martin before leaving.

> _Martin, I must apologize for my behaviour tonight. It was highly inappropriate and unprofessional, and I should have shown better judgment. Please don’t think I hold you responsible for any of this. I hope you can forgive me this egregious mistake._
> 
> _– J. Sims._
> 
> _P.S. I’ve packed away your dinner and placed it in the break room fridge for you._

Later, when he’s sure that Jon has left, Martin returns to his room and finds the note. He reads over it with misty eyes, scolding himself the whole time for being such a baby about it. While rational logic would tell him that Jon is just a naturally curt person, especially in written communications, and that he has trouble expressing himself when it comes to emotional matters, Martin instead chooses to zero in on the word _mistake_ and repeat it miserably to himself until he finally manages to fall asleep.

The next day, Tim approaches Martin with a look of deep confusion in his eyes, looks over his shoulder to check that they're alone. "Er, Jon gave me this," he says with a frown, presenting Martin with an envelope. "Asked me to deliver it to you?"

Martin looks at it, a plain white letter-sized envelope which says _MARTIN_ in Jon's thin, sharp script, just gawks for a minute before he can bring himself to take it from Tim's hand. Once he has it, he continues to stare at it until Tim clears his throat.

"I can leave, if you want?” he offers gently. “If you'd rather open it alone?"

"No, no, it's fine," Martin says numbly, slipping his finger under the sealed edge of the envelope and opening it with shaking hands. He holds his breath as he looks inside.

The envelope contains nothing but three crisp £50 notes. Martin balks at it, unsure whether he should feel insulted. It’s clear that Jon thinks he’s doing something nice, repaying his debt to Martin with a hefty gratuity for the inconvenience and for his _egregious mistake._ It doesn’t feel very nice where Martin’s standing.

He pockets the cash nonetheless. It’s not like he’s in a position to be turning down money, and he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, misguided as it may be. Tim watches him ball up the now-empty envelope and toss it in the bin, growing more curious by the second, and he nearly breaks down when Martin doesn’t offer an explanation unprompted.

“What is that about?” he asks, bewildered but not too much to still be cognizant of Martin’s discomfort. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Martin shrugs. “M’fine. Don’t worry about it. Just – we ordered food last night, since we were both here so late, and he didn’t have any cash, so he was just getting me back.”

“Did you order fucking gold-plated lobster?” Tim’s voice is a bit too loud, incredulous and – maybe impressed? – and Martin shoots him a glare before pulling him into a cupboard to continue the conversation. “Sorry, sorry,” Tim adds in a rush as he realizes his mistake, watching Martin close the door behind them.

Martin brushes off the apology with a short nod, pressing his lips together tightly as he considers what to say. He trusts Tim with his life, with his deepest secrets, with every part of him, but this isn’t necessarily about trust so much as it is about the likelihood of this getting back to Jon if he tells Tim now. The likelihood seems high, and Martin can’t stomach the thought of Jon thinking he goes about telling everyone who will listen that they kissed.

Besides which, he’s still so confused and hurt and thrown by the whole thing, and he rather thinks he would like to get his own thoughts under control before he tries to share, even with his best friend. So he looks at Tim and implores, with all the sincerity he can muster, “Can we drop it, please? I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter to me. I just – really, really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Sure,” Tim answers easily, not hesitating for even a moment.

“Thank you,” Martin says, emphasizing his gratitude with a quick peck on Tim’s cheek. 

Tim has a question on the tip of his tongue, something about _While we’re in a cupboard together, we might as well…,_ but Martin turns to leave before he has the chance to voice it. He opens the door and steps out, and Tim follows him. And when he sees Jon through the small window in his office door, watching them leave a cupboard together, his face screwed up in a show of every kind of unhappiness combined, Tim chooses not to draw Martin’s attention to it. 

It takes a little more than a week for things to go back to some semblance of normality. Martin can look Jon in the eyes now, and Jon can look back, and they can hold a perfectly casual conversation about work, the weather, even sometimes a bit of personal information, like they’re almost friends. On the surface, their relationship is better now than it ever has been, even before the kiss debacle.

The issue with that is that now Martin knows what it’s like to kiss Jon, and that makes everything else pale in comparison. He knows rationally that he should be thankful for the improvement of their working relationship, the increased understanding with which Jon treats him nowadays, the fleeting moments of real earnest compassion that he sees in Jon. But he can’t help but think that it’s all just because he’s ashamed of kissing Martin, or because he feels guilty for how much he _hated_ kissing Martin and how much he doesn’t want to do it ever again.

Of course, he gets nothing from Jon to indicate any particular attitude regarding the kissing. They both pretend it didn’t happen, for the most part, and Martin thinks that’s probably better than an outright rejection. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if Jon told him to his face that it was a mistake. 

He thinks about that a lot – the word _mistake,_ stark and ugly on that note Jon left him, which he kept and is now using as a bookmark. The rest of it might be bearable, if it weren’t for the fact that Jon called it a mistake. 

He also thinks about the rest of the note a lot. He thinks about Jon’s unnecessary apologies and his readiness to hold himself accountable for the whole thing. He thinks about Jon writing as if he’s making amends for workplace sexual harassment. He thinks about Jon signing his name _J. Sims,_ so formal as to be endearing. He thinks about Jon taking the time to put his leftovers in the fridge for him, a small gesture, but one that means a lot to Martin, all things considered.

Eventually, he tells Tim about every part of that night except for the kiss – tells him how they bonded and laughed, how it got very awkward very suddenly and he fled, how they haven’t brought it up since then. Tim isn’t surprised in the least that Jon and Martin are having trouble communicating with each other, but he’s not going to force it. He gives Martin an ear and a shoulder and – well, frankly, his whole body and mind and heart, both because he wants to and because Martin _needs_ someone stable in his life, needs to be sure of _something,_ and Tim wants Martin to be absolutely sure of their friendship.

The longer they go without talking about it, the more it seems like the kiss never happened at all. Martin no longer feels that pang of guilt for keeping it a secret, nor does he feel the dull indignation at Jon’s impassive attitude. He still feels confused, though, constantly. He still listens to all of Jon's tapes, though nowadays he's usually around when they're recorded; Jon doesn't ask him to go on very many field trips, and Martin doesn't know why, but he tries not to be bothered by it, tries to fill out whatever paperwork or read whatever statement Jon gives him while Tim and Sasha are out chasing leads and charming information out of people. Martin hopes it's something to do with Jon worrying for his safety, but it's a flight of fancy, wishful thinking at its finest. He wastes quite a few nights lying awake wondering why Jon does the things he does, and he never gets any closer to an answer.


End file.
